


Count Down to the 221st Night

by m0rkl



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen, I don't know, character bits, poems fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:23:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0rkl/pseuds/m0rkl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Count Down to the 221st Night</p>
<p>Day 1: Favourite Character</p>
<p>Day 2: Science Division</p>
<p>Day 3: Clan of Noah</p>
<p>Day 4: Exorcists</p>
<p>Day 5: BroTP</p>
<p>Day 6: OTP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count Down to the 221st Night

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Favourite Character
> 
> I picked Allen, because he is my everything, but it was so hard to pick a favorite. I love everyone too much.  
> Also, I decided to do this last minute, so... enjoy?

            Red.

 

That was the first color he knew.

It was they color of his hair.

It was the color of his arm.

It was what they called him.

 

            “Red!” The ringmaster called out of his tent. The six year old child stumbled in, saying nothing. “Before you supper, Clean Jaina’s performance equipment. She insisted on using them instead of the practice bars.” He grumbled, shooing the boy away. The child growled to himself, careful not to let the ringmaster hear. Cleaning the acrobat’s equipment would take him at least an hour so there was no way there would be any food left for him tonight.

            And so Red spent the evening cleaning all the dust and dirt from the cherry colored bars and rings. He went to bed hungry, but at least it was warm in the last summer night.

 

            White.

 

Like snow.

White like the unkind winters and the near death chill.

Like purity he thought he’s never know

 

            The church wouldn’t let him in. Not a big surprise there. He tried to sneak in with some of the other children, but the rusty color of his hair caught the eye of one of the nuns. She gasped and kicked him out into the still falling snow. The church wouldn’t allow in filthy demon children, only the innocent and pure. Not the grotesque and discarded.

            And so the nameless child sat hugging himself in the alley way as the snow continued to fall. The darkness enveloped him as the cold faded into numbness. Upon waking to that same harsh white, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

 

White like clown make up and Allen’s short coarse fur.

The color of the child’s hair when he witnesses terror

like nothing he has ever seen in his short miserable life. White.

 

            Sometimes, even almost three years later, he still found dog hair in Mana’s things. The fine white hairs stuck out against his’s Papa’s black waistcoat, but much less so against the cream of his clown costume. He never found any on his own coat, but there it was. One fine white hair, scolding him for taking on someone the name of another.

            The Earl came. He screamed Mana’s name. He was cursed. He killed Mana.

            And so Allen sat against the grave, alone once again. White hair brushed over the edges of his vision and blood dripped slowly onto his coat. A man with red hair, approached and asked him a question, but the child heard nothing. His mind was blank. White

 

            Green.

 

The color of fear.

The color of anger.

The color of betrayal.

The color of “It’s my fault he’s dead”

 

            He screamed. He screamed and he screamed until his voice gave out and still he screamed. The boy screamed until he thought his throat might bleed and still it wasn’t enough. ‘I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.’ He thought. His Papa was dead and it was entirely his fault. It was his ugly, accursed arm with that green glow that killed his Papa. This arm destroyed every chance of happiness he ever could have had.

            And so the child stay motionless save for the shivers of pain and fear the wracked his body.

 

Green.

The color of hope.

The color of new life.

The color of Innocence.

 

            “Allen.” His Master spoke. “Do you know why your arm is the way it is?”

 

            “No, Master.” The boy responded in a flat, blank tone.

 

            “Innocence.” Cross began. “Innocence is the crystal of God and it is used to destroy akuma. You’re arm is made of innocence. It is an anti-akuma weapon.” The exorcist pulled something out of his jacket. “This green crystal, is innocence in its raw form. Here.” He dropped it into Allen’s small hands, letting him look it over.

 

            And so the child gained a new meaning for the color green. Not the color of meaningless pain and terror. The color of hope, power and a second chance.

 

            Red.

            White.

            Green.

 

            Black.

 

            Black.

            The color of their uniform.

            The color of her boots.

            The color of his hammer.

            The color of his sword.

            The Black Order.

            The color of home.

 


End file.
